Page 83 of Luthias

“Mery.” Her name spilled from his mouth onto her lips. “I cannae.”

In another life she wouldn’t do this, Emery promised herself as she kissed Luthias. She meant it to be only a touch of her mouth to his, a little something to remember when she went back home. But the feel of his lips on hers, warm and firm and alive, made all that seem stupid. She needed more, but of course she would stop, any second now, and then his hand slid into her hair.

His tongue parted her lips as he tasted and then took her mouth. The taste of the kiss went right to her brain, delicious and powerful, jolting her, seducing her. She could feel her fingers curling in the warm silk of his hair, and her body shook with everything she’d tried so hard to ignore. Oh, but he knew how to kiss and make it sweet and hot, as tender as a gentle caress, as intimate as making love.

Luthias lifted her off her feet and started walking toward her bed without ending the kiss, which was good. Standing any longer wouldn’t be possible; the minute he let go of her she was going to collapse. It needed to be somewhere he could be on top of her so she could feel all those hard, wonderful muscles of his against her bare skin, where she could wrap her legs around him and tear off her–

At that moment the door to the chamber opened, someone gasped and two shocked voices asked for Luthias’s pardon.

As the door slammed shut Luthias lifted his head and lowered her back onto her feet.

“I think that was the seamstress and the maid,” Emery whispered, a little more than alarmed now. Nothing spread faster through the castle than gossip. “I should tell them that...I don’t know. I can’t think. What do I tell them? I fainted. Fainting would work, right?”

“Say naught.” Luthias bent his head, resting his cheek against her hair for a moment as he rubbed one hand over her back. Then he took a step back and wrapped her up in the tartan again. “’Tisnae your fault, lass, but mine. I’ll speak with them later.”

He left her, his steps slow and his back rigid, as if he was making himself go. All Emery could do was sit down and press her damp hands to her hot cheeks.

“I cannot have sex with that man.” That was all she wanted to do, but it was seriously crazy how close she’d come to doing just that without even thinking about it. Even now she wanted to run after him and drag him back to the bed. “Stop, stop, stop.”

Of course she was insanely attracted to Luthias––a woman would have to be in a coma not to be––but the attraction between them had gone nuclear somehow. She couldn’t fool around with him or anyone in this time. What if she got pregnant? What if the clan decided to force them to get married? Forget about the disruption of the timeline; she had been brought here to save the MacRoss, not have a torrid love affair with their laird. She and Luthias should never have even met; he would die centuries before she would even be born.

None of that matters. I want him. I want him to take off my lingerie and look at me naked. Then I want to undress him. Then I don’t want to leave this room for a couple days. They can just bring food to us.

Emery’s lips still throbbed from that kiss, the best kiss of her life. Now that she knew how it would feel it was going to be even harder to stay away from Luthias. How was she supposed to sleep at night knowing she could just run down the hall and jump in bed with him?

He wouldn’t let me get any sleep, either.

Her crazy, shameless thoughts fragmented as the door opened, and the seamstress came in with an armful of clothes but without the disapproving maid. Emery tried to smile, but when the older woman gave her a pitying look she sighed.

“I’m sorry about that,” she told her. “He came in, and I wasn’t dressed, and things just got entirely out of hand.”

The seamstress looked sad now as she came to her. “’Tis well, my lady. The laird, he’s never once… I’ve no doubt he shall tell you what you need ken.” She cleared her throat and said briskly, “Now, I’ve some trews and leines I reckon your size. Shall we try them on, then, and see if they please you?”

In the sage’s hall Duine led his trusted wrights to the scriptorium, where he asked the brothers working there to give them the chamber for a few minutes. Once the other sages left he took out the scroll he had received from Dun Lasair’s master sage and handed it to the older wright.

“Reothadh requests we meet by moonrise tonight.” He tucked his trembling hands unto the ends of his sleeves and regarded them as calmly as he could. “Should I no’ return by dawn, you must inform the laird that I’ve been taken by the Carack.”

He would probably not be slowly tortured and killed as a captive of the Carack enclave. Sages from both sides considered each other as rivals, not enemies, but with the clans’ hostilities growing he could not count on anything.

“Surely no’, Master,” the younger wright said. “Dinnae go and speak to that rank dobber. He means you ill.”

“Aye, but I owe him a debt, lad.” Duine sighed heavily. “I should never have bartered with the twally, but ’tis done, and I’ll see him repaid. Keep watch over the apprentices and my laboratorium, and assure the relics room remains locked. I’m off, then.”

Making the trek from Dun Lasair to the meeting place forced the master sage to climb up an old trail in the slopes narrowed by overgrowth from the forests. As nettles and thorns tugged at his outer robe he considered all he would have to do in the coming days. The arrival of Emery Parker seemed an evil portent, but with careful watching he’d decided the lass largely worthless. What could she do to protect the MacRoss when she could barely lift a sword?

The high grove appeared at the top of the old trail, and from the gap in the oak trees Duine saw the tall, stoop-shouldered figure of the Carack’s master sage. Had they belonged to the same enclave they likely would have served as wrights together, but Reothadh would have become a master first. Knowing his Carack counterpart to be cleverer and far more skilled had never troubled Duine. Over time he had learned the merits of his own gifts, humble as they might seem by comparison.

“Eventide, Master Sage.” He stopped until Reothadh inclined his head, and then did the same before he cautiously approached and joined him. “’Tis good to see you sound and healthy. How may I serve?”

“You may now cease tirling my arse,” the Carack master said, his tone as dry as it was condescending. “We both ken you’re only here to repay the debt you owe me for the sunstone.”

He should never have asked him for even that small supply of the crystal, but his need for that elixir had been particularly pressing. “Very well. What want you in return?”

“Truth.” He took out a roll of parchment and offered it to him. “I seek this wench.”

Duine took out a coldfire orb, and held it so that its blue light illuminated the drawing of a lovely, smiling female wearing the oilcloth apron of a jeweler over her bodice and skirts. “’Tis a maiden of your household?”

“A jewel-setter named Athdara Martin. She went missing a fortnight past with a chest of my laird’s gold.” Reothadh tapped the likeness. “If you’ve given her sanctuary at Dun Lasair, ’twill bring disaster upon your enclave as well as the MacRoss.”